A Gay of Shadows
by PalindromeIsntOne
Summary: "What the HELL!" John spluttered. "It was an accident," Sherlock said calmly. "WHAT! Holmes, no. You did not just kiss me BY ACCIDENT. Kisses do not happen accidentally!" -slash, don't like, don't read- -SPOILERS-
1. Train Scene

_A/N: THIS FILM. THIS FILM. If this film had been a cracky fanfiction I would not have been surprised. But it's CANON. Seriously, this is catered towards the fandom so badly I swear it was actually TARGETTING it. Anyway, any Sherlock fan who came away from that film without a plotbunny...well, seriously. I saw it yesterday with some friends, and I'm already uploading, that's how serious it is. The homoerotic subtext! So being a Sherlock/John fan I sort of decided to take it further, I guess. _

_Disclaimer: My memory is terribly inaccurate, but if I have actually managed to successfully incorporate some lines from the film, they are obviously not mine. Nor are the characters, the original plot, blah._

_Probably dedicated to Squilf, as a sort of ironic apology. :)_

_Here comes plotbunny one, the main one._

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><p><span>Plotbunny One: Train Scene<span>

They continued to grapple inside the small compartment, staggering dangerously close to the door that Mary had just fallen – _been __pushed_ – out of.

"Watson," Sherlock gasped in a free moment, "Might we better use this energy against the _common_ enemy?"

"My _wife_, Holmes!"

"Well, she has already gone for the time being, and I wouldn't say _enemy_, but –" He was interrupted by another incoming punch, which he deftly blocked. "It was for her own good!" he protested.

"Oh yes, because we should all be thrown out of a _train_ every now and then."

"She'll be perfectly well cared for!"

"You just threw my wife out of a train!"

"Oh do stop going on about it."

"She –" He was silenced as Sherlock's strong arms pinned him violently against the carriage wall and an oddly lipsticked mouth crushed against his own.

He was so stunned that he froze in his attack completely, and it was a moment longer before Sherlock pulled away.

"Ah, silence at last. Now if I might suggest –"

"What the _hell_?" John spluttered at last, wiping his mouth harshly against the back of his hand.

"It was an accident," Sherlock said calmly.

"_What?_ Holmes, _what_?"

Sherlock was sitting down on the floor, apparently ignoring him.

"Holmes, _no._ You did not just kiss me _by __accident._ Kisses do not happen accidentally!" John stared at him, still in shock. Sherlock finally looked up at him.

"Did I say accident? I meant incident. Wasn't that what I said?" Sherlock lay back fully on the floor and patted the space beside him. "Here. Lie down with me Watson."

John stared at him for a moment longer but then in purely practical consideration acquiesced, knowing that Sherlock probably knew something he didn't. Once he was lying down he glanced across at Sherlock apprehensively.

"What are we doing?"

Sherlock looked at him. "_We_ are waiting. _I _am…_smoking._"

John narrowed his eyes a little at the tone, but Sherlock had indeed withdrawn his pipe, and was indeed smoking.

"What are we waiting for?" he asked, but even as the last word left his lips the sound of gunfire ripped through the compartment, making him jump slightly despite himself. They both twisted automatically onto their sides, half curling up to shield themselves. He could feel Sherlock's strong chest pressed awkwardly against his back as bullets continued to pummel the walls.

"A window of opportunity!" Sherlock called into his ear and John tensed, wondering what the hell he meant as one of Sherlock's arms slipped over his waist. His mind snapped back into focus, however, when he felt the cold metal of a gun being pressed against his hand. He took it, and a moment later the thunder of gunshots miraculously shuddered to a halt.

"Make it count!" Sherlock urged as he straightened, aiming through the series of spaces that presented themselves, and pulled the trigger.

Perhaps it was the pressure, or the movement of the train, or a quick-flash, disturbing recollection of Sherlock's lips on his, but the bullet went stray, only hitting the target on the shoulder. He cursed silently as he ducked down again. Less than a moment later more violent gunfire ripped through the compartment.

"I said 'make it count'!" Sherlock protested. "How many opportunities did you think you had?"

John muttered something inaudible. But then, Sherlock always had a backup plan.

~O~

The blasted carriages were quickly separated, leaving a trail of sparks as the enemy was left behind. Sherlock sat down beside him to watch it, and John could almost feel the smugness radiating from him.

"Holmes," he said at last.

"There, fireworks." Sherlock pointed at the rapidly retreating carriages with his pipe, which were still spouting sparks as they disappeared into the distance. "You've got some fireworks on your honeymoon after all."

"Holmes," John repeated.

"Admittedly, under slightly different circumstances," Sherlock acknowledged. "But given the choice between here and Brighton, I'd certainly say here was more exciting."

"Holmes," John repeated.

Sherlock seemed to sulk for a moment at John's lack of enthusiasm. Eventually he took a long-suffering puff from his pipe and looked across at him. "Yes Watson?"

There were a lot of things John felt like saying. He was naturally still angry at Sherlock's treatment of Mary, although he had to concede by this point that it would probably be better for her safety. He would have also liked to point out that his honeymoon plans had officially been _ruined_, and that it was all entirely Sherlock's fault. But what he actually found himself saying was,

"You kissed me."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed simply, as if that was all there was to it.

"You said 'accident' not 'incident'. You were lying," John stated.

"Impeccable deduction Watson," Sherlock answered sarcastically.

"Might I ask _why,_ on God's earth, you did so?"

Sherlock was quiet, continuing to smoke his pipe as though John had merely exhaled. He showed no outward sign, in fact, that he had heard at all. After a few seconds he said, "I suggest we should both get some sleep."

John wasn't sure that he had wanted to hear the answer anyway. He gave a grudging nod and looked for a semi-comfortable place to lie down. After a minute or so of shuffling uncomfortably he heard Sherlock say, "Should I apologise?"

John wasn't sure if he meant for the kiss or for, well, everything.

"Yes," he said.

"Ah." There was a pause. "Well I'm not going to."

John sighed and rolled over to face the wall. He shifted uncomfortably for a few more moments, and then sighed again. "I'm not going to forgive you for this."

"I know."

Despite himself, John felt a smile creeping up at one side of his mouth. He knew without looking that across the small distance that separated them, Sherlock was smiling too.


	2. Horse Scene

_A/N: Thank you all for such a great response! A lot of comments in answer to my Author's Note too - I'm glad you share my views of the sheer amount of subtext in this film!_

_In advance, yes I did think of one for the waltz scene (who didn't), but this has already been done just lovely in a fanfiction called 'A Waltz' by DaughterOfStarlight. It's in my favourites, actually. So I'm content to leave that one unless you want to charm me by requesting for me to do my own take on it. _

_So here is plotbunny two, because when we were presented with the horse problem and John said 'Lets see, how can we make this more...manageable." this was what I thought of before we were given the glory that was Sherlock-on-a-little-pony._

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><p><span>Plotbunny Two: Horse Scene<span>

"Just get on the horse, Holmes."

"But –"

"Holmes, hurry up, it's just a horse."

Sherlock glared at him.

"The stirrup is just there. Put your foot in it, and pull yourself up and over."

Sherlock eyed the horse one more time. The horse eyed him back, looking equally nervous.

"I don't like the look of this one. Can we –"

"No."

"But the look in its eyes and the shifting of its feet clearly suggest –"

"It wants to get _going_, Holmes. As do we _all_." He sighed impatiently as Sherlock hesitated. "Look, you _agreed_ to this. I'm perfectly happy for you to take your own horse. After all, two men sharing a horse is hardly going to pass as normal. In fact, I retract my offer. You can do as you please." He shifted to look back in front, adjusting himself as if to set off.

"Wait!"

John sighed as Sherlock quickly slipped his foot in the stirrup and pulled himself up and over the rear end of the horse. That is, in a way that ended up with him draped horizontally over the horse's back, the back of the saddle digging into his stomach. John laughed.

"Well done. You alright there? Good. Let's go." He gave the horse a nudge with his heels to get the horse walking. Sherlock gave a muffled noise of protest, awkwardly using some combination of John's waist and shoulders to haul himself into a proper sitting position behind John. Then he promptly wrapped his arms tightly around John's waist, as if fearing for his life. John wriggled a bit to loosen them as they got going.

The saddle was not designed to seat two people. It was possible, but naturally both ends sloped down gently towards the middle, angling John's body naturally back towards Sherlock and Sherlock's naturally forwards against John. However, it didn't work _quite_ like that as John, being the one controlling the horse, had to sit more centrally in order to put his feet comfortably through the stirrups, forcing Sherlock right to the back of the saddle. Luckily there was just enough room to sit them both comfortably but was still a close embrace from Sherlock's position, and John could feel the detective's body shift against him with each movement of the horse. He could also feel Sherlock breathing, quite literally, down his neck.

"Holmes, could you sit back a bit?"

He felt Sherlock's head move, presumably to survey his current position.

"Probably not," Sherlock reported.

"Well _try_, would you?"

"I'm perfectly comfortable as I am, thank you Watson."

"But I'm _not_. You're _breathing __down __my __neck._"

"There is nowhere else to breathe Old Boy."

"There is, and I expect you to use your supposedly superior intellect to find it."

This drew an indistinguishable sound from Sherlock, who shifted only infinitesimally before resuming his snug slouch against John's back. John took a deep breath to protest, but then let it out with a sigh, changing his mind. At least now that Sherlock was on the horse he wasn't making any further protests or complaints about the 'dangerous' animal. John smiled to himself.

They travelled in quiet for about half an hour. At this point Sherlock's hold on him began to loosen, his arms slipping down until his hands were resting on the front of the saddle, his wrists lightly brushing the insides of John's thighs. John felt rather relieved to be free of the embarrassing hug but felt equally awkward about the new position of Sherlock's hands. Carefully, one at a time, he lifted Sherlock's wrists and lowered them gently down either side of the horse. When this sparked absolutely no comment from Sherlock he frowned. But then he felt the warm weight of Sherlock's head come to rest against the back of his left shoulder and realised the more probable truth. Sherlock had fallen asleep. For a moment John was charmed, having by now gotten used to the warm and oddly comforting presence of the detective there. Hang on – oddly comforting?

It was also about now that John registered the passing glances from the other riders – small smiles and 'knowing' looks. At first he thought they were simply being sympathetic with his plight but then realised what the looks reminded him of. They reminded him of the looks waiters gave him when he asked Mary out to dinner. But that meant they thought Sherlock and him… No! This was meant to be his honeymoon with Mary that Sherlock had ruined, not an alternate honeymoon with Sherlock in Mary's absence! He felt a brief anger followed by a dull embarrassment as he realised he probably hadn't refuted this image by essentially letting Sherlock cuddle him for half an hour.

"_Holmes_," he hissed, letting go of the reins with one hand to elbow Sherlock lightly in the ribs. This seemed to have no effect. Damn it, why had he let Sherlock get away with this? Even if they _had _been on a honeymoon there would be no excuse for this – Sherlock should be staying awake to enjoy every moment of this havoc he was creating. And what sort of honeymoon would this make anyway – having to sneak across borders whilst tackling fights and assassins in pursuit of a threatening enemy? And why the _hell_ was he evaluating this as an alternate honeymoon with Sherlock?

He elbowed Sherlock in the ribs again, a lot harder this time. "_Holmes!_"

Sherlock gave a sleepy moan, only half waking. But John's shove had tilted him off balance and John could feel Sherlock's head sliding across and off his shoulder as Sherlock keeled over to one side. By the time either John or Sherlock could react Sherlock had already shifted too far off balance and landed promptly on the ground. This was more than sufficient to shock him fully awake.

As John pulled the horse to a halt Sherlock was already sitting up and rubbing his back, his eyes wide and taking a surprisingly long time to deduce what had happened. John looked down at him, feeling momentarily guilty. But if he apologised, helped Sherlock back on and let him continue for even _longer_ as close as he had been that would hardly strengthen John's argument for them really _not_ being in a relationship. He looked back into Sherlock's half dazed eyes and felt a brief push-pull sensation in the pit of his stomach. Eventually as Sherlock stood up to brush himself off John turned and called back over his shoulder,

"That's _it. _Can we get the pony?"

* * *

><p><em>AN: This is sort of turning into a 'Homoerotic Deleted Scenes: PalindromeIsntOne's Cut', isn't it?_


	3. Death Scene

_A/N: Oh my god. You guys. A massive, massive thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed!_

_Sherlock's first 'death' is naturally a plotbunny for a resuscitation kiss – but once more, the fandom is joint and powerful, and this has been accomplished in the lovely fanfiction 'Breathe' by Feralious. It's in my favourites too. (Credit if it's been done elsewhere too that I haven't read) Thank you, however, to those that prompted me to write it! I have also gathered from various fanfiction places that the CPR we know with 'kisses of life' looks to be, unfortunately, historically inaccurate for that time (obviously with no accounting for artistic licence in the fandom). Correct me if I'm wrong – I've sort of…played with that a bit._

_So this plotbunny is set as an extension in the aftermath of the film scene, with my own take on how it could work out. And hence we commence…Homoerotic Deleted Scenes: PalindromeIsntOne's Cut, Scene Three. There's one back reference to Plotbunny One here, if you're reading out of order._

_In my head, RDJ!Holmes is just a little bit flirty with Watson. You know, almost in a secret way._

_As an after-note, I currently have two plotbunnies remaining as things stand._

* * *

><p><span>Plotbunny Three: Death Scene<span>

Sherlock shifted to lean back against John as the train rattled onwards towards Switzerland. John sighed, knowing this was unnecessary contact as Sherlock had only injured his ankle and was now perfectly alive to complain about it. But then he supposed Sherlock was justified in seeking comfort after being so close to death, and John was partly glad of the contact himself. It reassured him that this was real; Sherlock was alive, Sherlock was here. He reached towards Sherlock's neck with the premise of pushing Sherlock's head off his shoulder, but in reality so that he could press two quick fingers to Sherlock's pulse as he did so. He wasn't dreaming or hallucinating. Sherlock was alive. And John felt ridiculously, overwhelmingly grateful for the fact.

"Still beating is it Old Boy?" Sherlock asked lightly, not missing a thing.

"Fortunately or unfortunately, yes." John sighed.

"When would my existence ever be unfortunate?" Sherlock retorted, indignant.

"Well it could be seen as unfortunate for Mary and Gladstone."

"Ridiculous. The world depends on me as its only consulting detective," Sherlock declared, as egotistical as ever.

"Then the rest of the world owes me its undying gratitude for your continued existence," John pointed out.

"Indeed." Sherlock looked up at him seriously. "Thank you, Watson."

John nodded, smiled and swallowed, wondering how justified he was to feel this emotional just to be reassured of his best friend's presence in his life a little longer. "You're welcome."

A minute or so lapsed in silence.

"It occurs to me though," Sherlock commented after some thought, "that you might have given me some air."

"Pardon?"

"I wasn't breathing, correct? Therefore I needed some air. As a medical man I'm sure you must have deduced this."

"What did you _think_ I was trying to do?" John snapped back, insulted.

"I didn't mean it as a slight on your technique, Watson, not by any means. I'm just speculating that you might have…breathed _for_ me, as it were."

"Oh?" John cut back sharply, his anger rising. The whole incident had been…_too_ _close_…as it was, and to think that Sherlock was implying he could somehow have tried harder – well, he couldn't deal with that thought. He had damn well tried his best and Sherlock was alive now, and that was all there was to it. To even think of that alternative – in which he hadn't had the wedding gift, or hadn't thought of using it – that there might have been something else he could have tried but didn't…No, it was too much.

"Yes," Sherlock said simply, sounding slightly confused by John's anger.

"And how would I have done that?" John persisted as he clenched his fists slightly, his fury increasing at Sherlock's speculative nonchalance.

"By breathing air into me in the way that I normally would for myself when I'm alive, presumably," Sherlock concluded easily.

_When I'm alive._ How could he say that so casually moments after his own escape from death? John felt his own heart rate increasing, stressed. It took him a few moments to follow in his head what Sherlock had said. People normally breathed air in through their nose or mouth, so to breathe air into Sherlock would have meant… It would have had to be mouth to mouth, of course, to get the most air in the most efficiently.

"It could have been an accident," Sherlock said quietly.

That was it. John shoved him away forcefully, rage flooding him. "You selfish _bastard_!" he exploded. "Holmes – no! I hadn't even _thought_ of what you just suggested and if I had I wouldn't be thinking –" He cut himself off and took a shaky breath, briefly raising one hand to his temples. "God, Holmes, you nearly _died_ and here you are, uncaring, talking about other ways I might have attempted to save you and how I might have excused myself if that involved kissing you!" he yelled. Then he took a deep breath to calm himself, and sighed.

"Holmes," he began again, quieter this time, "Even if I _had_ thought of such an idea, I wouldn't have needed an…_excuse_ to do so. I wouldn't even have thought of it. If I knew it and if I could do it I would have done anything to save you." The last sentence came out as only a hoarse whisper and he watched as expressions of shock, realisation and touched apology passed over Sherlock's face in turn. He wondered if he'd overreacted, if he'd said too much.

"I'm sorry, Watson," Sherlock said at last, his tone warm and genuine. With an odd expression he shifted back closer to John and awkwardly slipped his arms around John's waist, leaning in against his shoulder.

"What are you doing, Holmes?" John asked after a moment.

"Hugging you. I believe it is a generally practised method of comforting people that have experienced distress."

"Really Holmes. Well that's just wonderful. Thank you, that's just what I needed."

Either Sherlock ignored his sarcasm or John hadn't managed to be quite as sarcastic as he'd intended, but Sherlock didn't move or reply. After a moment or two Sherlock even adjusted himself to get more comfortable, slowly relaxing against John's chest as if he would be content to fall asleep there. John looked down at him for a long moment, finding himself oddly unwilling to push the detective away. It was extremely unusual, for sure, but not entirely unpleasant. Perhaps he had even needed it a little bit. He felt too wearied to complain, and soon found himself accustoming to the peculiarity as the last pieces of tension and adrenaline left in him from Sherlock's momentary passing faded away. He sighed.

"Hugging is more usually used to comfort _ladies_ in distress," John pointed out at length.

"Indeed," Sherlock acknowledged, "but right now I'm hugging _you_."


	4. Car Scene and Boat Scene

_A/N: Thank you once more for such an amazing response! Life is getting very busy at the moment, so I don't know how long it will take me to make the 'final' (?) update..._

_I decided to put these two plotbunnies in the same chapter due to the short length. These are coming out of chronological order, too, but I hope you'll forgive me! Thank you to the prompt from Chibibook suggesting the scene before John's wedding in which Sherlock offers a hand to help John out of the car. I had this scene lingering in my head but I reckon I might have ignored it if not for the prompt. The boat scene I've written comes after Irene's death in which Sherlock drops her handkerchief overboard as a sort of goodbye._

_To Wolfy: I do indeed remember the scene where Sherlock asks something like "Are you happy?" and John ignors him, and Sherlock says something like 'Are you as happy now as you would be on your honeymoon?" when they're hiding before they split (telegram/tower) but I couldn't manage to make a plotbunny grow in my head - the scene just seemed too short, and I didn't think that scene needed any expansion, having only a little space for perhaps a moment's introspection. Perhaps I just have too small an imagination. Sorry!_

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><p><span>Plotbunny Four: Car Scene<span>

Sherlock looked over to where John was sleeping, dishevelled, in the car seat next to him. He looked a mess, Sherlock supposed, although personally he thought John's appearance was perfectly reasonable considering how much he'd drunk and fought the previous evening. There was no bone damage and whilst John's reflexes would probably be a little slower for the next few hours he would have made full mental recovery by the end of the day and a full physical recovery within the week. Sherlock flicked his gaze back towards the road. John would want to look his best for the wedding though, he knew, despite any of several logical arguments including the fact that John would still be getting married today no matter how he looked.

Sherlock glanced at John again, feeling a tiny, surprising glimmer of responsibility which was immediately vanquished, followed by a mild regret and nostalgia over their impending parting. Not that he was too worried; he was sure that he could persuade John to help out in later cases if he needed to. But he would have to respect John's boundaries if he wanted his cooperation, and that would mean respecting his married life. Sherlock would cope with the loss, of course, but it was not a transition he would otherwise choose. As he continued to observe John's sleeping features this feeling was followed by an odd glow of something he supposed he could label as latent affection. The man's hair was a mess. Sherlock wasn't carrying a comb though, and to his knowledge neither was John. John has brushed his hair before they'd set out, of course, but in his sleep it had become dishevelled again.

With the intent of doing his companion a small favour Sherlock reached out naturally and began to use his fingertips in a practical manner to smooth down some of the errant strands and give John a neater, more symmetrical appearance. About halfway through his task John woke, his eyelids fluttering open as his gaze focussed groggily on Sherlock's face. His voice, a little croaky with sleep to start off with, grew stronger as he spoke. He frowned.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Fixing –" Sherlock cut himself off as he took in John's expression. "Ah, rhetorical. You object. Then I was, um…checking we weren't being followed. Yes!" He twisted around abruptly so that he was facing John straight on, and then slid his shins onto the seat and pushed himself up so he could peer out through the back of the car.

"_Holmes!_" John gasped reflexively, the movement have inadvertently driven one of Sherlock's knees into a particularly sensitive area. Then, more firmly, "Holmes!"

"It looks like we've lost them…"

"For goodness' sake Holmes, I knew there was no one there!" John exclaimed, and then with a sudden hitch of breath, "Holmes! God damn it, the _car_, Holmes – we're going to crash!" At the last word he lurched forward, grabbing hold of the steering wheel and turning it sharply to the left, narrowly avoiding a ditch. He steadied their course for a few moments, after which Sherlock began in a slightly higher voice than usual,

"Watson." He cleared his throat politely, but John was currently too preoccupied making sure they didn't drive into anything else. He took a quick breath and tried again.

"Watson, not to trouble you Old Boy, but might we perhaps rethink our current position?"

It was then, Sherlock deduced, that John probably realised that in his dive for the steering wheel he had reached his right arm straight between Sherlock's legs, and his upper arm was now subsequently riding into Sherlock's crotch.

"Just…take the wheel, Holmes," John muttered, sitting back and lowering his arms so that Sherlock could readjust himself and move back into the driving position. A moment of mild awkwardness followed for both of them. It seemed that John was simply going to settle down again and go back to sleep, but just before he did he asked,

"Did my hair really look that bad?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered simply.

"Right." He closed his eyes, a half smile lifting his lips. Sherlock's low corresponding chuckle followed him as he drifted back into oblivion.

~O~

It was only a few minutes later when Sherlock pulled the car to a halt outside the church, but by then John had already fallen back into a sound slumber.

Sherlock finally roused him with the help of some conveniently noisy bagpipers.

He stood by the side of the car as John clambered down, and offered a hand to help support him. John looked at him for a moment as if irritated by the thought that he should need it, but after the first wobbly step he resigned himself to Sherlock's foregone conclusion and took his hand. Sherlock deliberately kept hold of his hand for a split-second longer than he knew was necessary, almost as if by prolonging the contact he could delay the moment, the metaphorical shift in their relationship towards the more distant. But as John's walking stabilised and Sherlock relaxed his hand to let John's drop John curled his fingers around a little further, maintaining the grip. Sherlock could tell from the pressure against his hand that John was no longer using him for balance.

"Are you nervous, Watson?" he deduced incredulously.

"I think one is entitled to be nervous on the one of the most momentous days of their life, Holmes."

"Ah, yes, but I find I'm handing it quite well actually. I was asking about _you_."

John looked at him for a long moment, shook his head and grinned. "I'm fine."

Sherlock gave his hand a sharp squeeze and then let go. He nodded perfunctorily, not meeting John's eyes. "Good."

* * *

><p><span>Plotbunny Five: Boat Scene<span>

John watched the white handkerchief as it was whipped away by the wind to be lost in the waters beyond. He watched Sherlock's gaze follow it for a moment and he stood as if to say something, but just then Sherlock turned back towards him with a small smile, as if to encourage John to make no more of it.

"I'm sorry," John said anyway.

Sherlock looked down and then back up. "That's alright Watson. After all, I still have you."

His smile widened a little, although John thought he could still detect some sadness in the detective's eyes. John felt a flash of guilt at that – Sherlock wouldn't have him much longer; as soon as this case was over he would be leaving and moving into married life with Mary. Another time he would have mentioned as much but this time he remained silent, sympathising. He sighed. He was always sympathising. If only Sherlock could make a habit of returning the gesture they might have something resembling a normal friendship. But Sherlock had never been 'normal'.

John walked over to where Sherlock was standing and briefly put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock shrugged it off with a grunt, reaching for his pipe. John regarded him for a moment, then paused and turned from him to face towards the retreating body of water instead, spreading his arms out a little from his sides to embrace the wind. He didn't know who exactly he was trying to distract – Sherlock or himself. The case wasn't over yet, not by a long shot. He could feel the adrenalin reinvigorating his system, caught in the challenge of adventure. He felt Sherlock's gaze slowly centre on him.

"Watson, what are you doing?" Sherlock asked at last.

"Enjoying the breeze," John remarked dryly.

"A pointless and misjudged occupation," Sherlock observed. "From the way that you are standing with your arms slightly out and pushed back, palms tilted forward I deduce that you desire to feel the wind on your front and face. However, Watson, we are facing the _back_ of the boat, if you had not observed, nor is the wind direction in your favour."

John allowed a small smile to twitch at the corners of his lips but rather than responding merely closed his eyes, relaxing as Sherlock returned to his usual bantering tone.

"Also," Sherlock continued, "if you really wanted to feel the breeze you should raise your arms perpendicular to your body to maximise air resistance, like so."

Sherlock stepped up behind him and raised John's arms brusquely by the wrists to make his point. Though having perhaps misjudged either the manoeuvre or the length of his arms this brought him practically flush against John's back, the end of his pipe lightly grazing John's jaw.

"Priceless advice, Holmes," John noted sarcastically. There was a pause as he reopened his eyes, half-turning with Sherlock's fingers still lightly supporting his wrists. They caught each other's eyes and paused as if to say humorously, '_Look at us.'_ A grin spread over both their faces and then they broke apart, laughing.


	5. Waltz Scene

_A/N: Yay thanks for all the responses everyone! I'm so overwhelmed. My exam has passed now, so I should be able to update a little easier! And I have a poll going! The answer may seem a little obvious to you, but please take part just to make a point ;) (It's attached to the top of my profile page)_

_Also, despite the great response, I'm a little peeved at the fact Fanfiction. net decided to undergo a revamp/crash on the evening of the day Chapter 4 updated. (Which I suspect nicked some of my reviews even though response was still great, I'm sure you other writers will understand). Damn me/it and my/its timing! I also think the one-shot About A Bike published on the same day suffered for it too – it's by ADashOfInsanity and is sweet and amusing so go check it out!_

_Okay, so onto the plotbunny! I finally decided (was persuaded – thanks to those who prompted!), despite the fact it's already been done (see my recommendation in Chapter 2), to do my own take on the Waltz Scene! (Because let's face it, who could resist?). So this is inspired by the 'Who taught you how to dance?' – 'You did' – i.e. my take on the time Sherlock taught John how to dance…_

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><p><span>Plotbunny Six: Waltz Scene (pre-film)<span>

John was worrying aloud over a ball Mary had persuaded him to attend the following week. Meanwhile Sherlock seemed to be trying to tell him something, but John was currently ignoring him.

"She kept dropping hints and I knew I just had to ask her –"

"– going on for at least five minutes now so it's clearly bothering you –"

"– so romantic, she said, but it's hardly going to be romantic if I can't dance –"

"– never personally saw the point of attending such social occasions myself, such a waste of time –"

"– this is important, I want to make a good impression on her –"

"– pointless social interaction, forced to hold polite conversation, not that I've ever tried –"

"– but what am I supposed to do if I can't dance? I don't know anyone who could teach me –"

"– people assume I don't _know_ how to interact, of course, which always irks me. I'm a genius, Watson, of course I know how to talk to people, I can even _waltz _–"

"– don't know a single step and it's such short notice, I mean who can I ask, seriously –"

"– steps are almost insultingly simple, would take less than twenty minutes to teach even someone like you –"

" – ridiculous, I'm going to be standing there like an idiot, the man is meant to take the _lead_ for crying out loud, and –" John cut himself off, Sherlock's words finally having sunk in at the back of his mind and made its way to conscious thought. He looked up at Sherlock, who was still pacing absently at the other end of the room, chewing his pipe and talking to himself.

"– potentially useful for distractions, hiding or disguise during a case but as for the more mundane purposes I have never really desired –"

"Holmes?"

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and turned to face him, falling quiet and raising an eyebrow for John to continue.

"Did you just say you know how to waltz?"

"Yes."

John stared at him incredulously. He blinked. "So you could teach me?"

Sherlock smiled. "I thought you'd never ask." He crossed the room in a few strides and then stopped in front of the chair where John was sitting and held a hand out. John rolled his eyes and took it, letting Sherlock haul him to his feet.

"So –" He stopped short, taken by surprise as Sherlock abruptly pulled him closer, adjusting his grip and placing his other hand on John's waist.

"Holmes, where are you putting your hand?"

Sherlock gave him a look that said _Surely you don't need to ask me that?_ but on receiving no response to this unvoiced question he heaved a world-weary sigh and said, "Watson, as a medical man –"

"Yes I know it's my waist, Holmes," John interrupted in an equally exasperated tone, "What I meant was _why_ is your hand on my waist?"

Then Sherlock gave him a look that said _Why didn't you just say that in the first place and that is a stupid question anyway,_ and John responded with a look that told him he had missed yet another 'pointless' aspect of social tact. Sherlock frowned.

"I'm teaching you to waltz, Watson. It's true that to dance _professionally_ my hand would be higher but I believe you will only be dancing casually with Mary, judging by –"

"Yes, yes. But can't you just, I don't know, demonstrate it –"

"– I am –"

"– so that I can _copy_?" John pulled his hand free and stepped away from Sherlock's hold. Sherlock frowned. John frowned back. "I'll need to know how to _lead_ to dance with Mary – following your lead is hardly going to help me."

"You cannot expect to lead me when you do not know how to waltz in the first place, Watson."

"Then show me how to lead!"

"I was intending to." Sherlock resumed his previous position.

"_Holmes!_"

"Watson, unless you intend to dance with your eyes closed you will be perfectly able to observe my method for later replication. This is by far the easiest way to teach you. Now, shall we begin?" he asked, and then continued with his instruction before John could answer.

"Now as I step forwards step backwards with the foot opposite mine. Now to the side. And feet together. Now pick up your other foot and step forwards as I step backwards."

John sighed and followed a little awkwardly.

"And to the side again, and feet back together. And now we repeat."

They went over the process a few more times, dancing in a box-like pattern. As John focussed on the steps he slowly forgot about his unusually close proximity to Sherlock. They had never interacted physically like this before; the few times they had touched was generally just to alert to other to something or perhaps pull them out of harm's way. Or in John's case, on rare occasions, to punch the infuriating detective. At most it was a comforting hand on the other's shoulder, but nothing so intimate as this. Though why should this be intimate? Sherlock was only teaching him so that he would be able to dance with Mary next week.

After several minutes they progressed from the boxed sequence to more free movement around the room. This was somewhat hampered, however, by the sheer amount of clutter at 221B and also John's resistance to following Sherlock's lead.

"Relax, Watson," Sherlock instructed. "Back straight, eyes up. Feel the rhythm – wait, I'll put on some music." He released his hold on John and spun away, locating the gramophone behind a stack of books and repositioned it on the desk before finally settling on a record and placing the needle on. Eventually he walked back over to where John was standing.

"Shall we?"

Sherlock moved to reinitiate the contact but John beat him to it, placing his hand on Sherlock's waist and giving him a stern look. Sherlock noted it and acquiesced quietly, assuming the woman's position. There then followed a very awkward attempt at waltzing as Sherlock still continued to try and lead and John both tried to keep in step with him whilst almost compulsively attempting to lead himself.

"Watson, this would be a lot easier if you just let me lead," Sherlock informed him.

John remained stubborn. With a sigh Sherlock relented and let him lead completely, which was disastrous as John still didn't really know what he was doing. John shuffled awkwardly at one point and sent Sherlock stumbling off into one of his precariously set up experiments, upsetting several of the bottles and vials. Sherlock gave him a look that was about as _I told you so_ as it could get, followed by an eyebrow raise of _Should I lead now?_ John gave him a disgruntled look, resuming the male position once more regardless, but this time he allowed the pressure of Sherlock's hands to guide him.

"One two three, one two three," Sherlock counted, but just as John was about to settle back into it he noticed something.

"Holmes, one of those liquids you spilt is burning a hole through your jacket," he noted, alarmed.

"You're meant to be looking at my face or where we're going, Watson, not my elbow. Have you learnt nothing?"

"It's going to burn through into your skin!"

"One of my favourite experimental acids," Sherlock commented dryly. "You'd better finish learning quickly then."

"Holmes –"

"Not an issue, Watson." He continued to waltz and John felt obliged to ignore it, assuming that Sherlock would protest if it did cause him any pain.

The noise from the disruption, however, had awakened a previously sleeping Gladstone, who was now semi-circling them both curiously as if trying to work out what his master was doing. John sensed the danger in his peripheral vision.

"I'm going to trip over him if he isn't careful," he muttered.

"Would you like me to sedate him?" Sherlock offered, far too cheerily. "I was thinking of trying –"

"_No_."

Sherlock looked put out. They continued dancing, re-finding their rhythm in the music, but somewhat inevitably a few seconds later John's concern became reality. They executed a half turn and just as John tried to take a step sideways his calf met with a sudden hulk of dog. He overbalanced immediately, and as the offended dog tried to get out of the way it only managed to get in Sherlock's, sending them both tumbling inelegantly to the floor. From where they both ended up on their backs they exchanged quick glances of _Saw that one coming_ and _Should've let me sedate him_ and _That wouldn't have been humane, Holmes, let's just –_

"I should have landed on top of you," Sherlock pointed out noncommittally.

"What?"

"If you are to treat me as taking the woman's role you should have shielded me from the fall. As an act of chivalry, if you will. We can try again, if you like, the aim is to try and turn –"

"_No_, Holmes," John broke in sharply, his voice tinged with disbelief as he moved to stand up again. Sherlock was also struggling to his feet. But before John was fully upright either fate or Sherlock conspired against him, as the still-present Gladstone shot out from nowhere and rammed heartily into the back of his legs. Feeling himself falling again John grabbed for Sherlock's arm automatically, but only succeeded in pulling Sherlock over on top of him. They landed awkwardly entangled, John suspecting back bruising but Sherlock quite comfortable on top of him.

"Much better," Sherlock commented. "I also believe that such a mistake lends itself to a rather romantically opportunistic _faux pas_, if you were so inclined," he added, his face barely a finger's width from John's own.

"That was not my intention," John gritted back, pushing him off brusquely and standing up a little more cautiously this time. Sherlock practically _sprang_ to his feet. John glared at him.

"I was rather hoping that you'd _stop_ me falling over, rather than land on top of me."

Sherlock brushed himself off nonchalantly. "There's only so much gravity one can defy, Watson," he answered easily, moving briefly towards the gramophone to set the record back to the beginning. "Incidentally, you broke my fall remarkably well." Sherlock paused. "So – shall we continue?"

A rather disgruntled Gladstone was ushered out of the room for the temporary care of Mrs Hudson, and then, despite it all, John once more took hold of Sherlock's hand and waist to dance.

After the practice they'd had it only took perhaps half a minute for John to find his stride, and then he was almost surprised by how _easy_ it was. Not just timing it to the music or performing the steps, but the way that despite the oddness of the situation Sherlock's rough hand fit perfectly naturally into his own. He didn't feel awkward or self-conscious and was somewhat amused by a suppressed flamboyance he detected in Sherlock's movements. At some point there was a subtle transition; no longer was he simply following Sherlock's guidance or mirroring Sherlock's steps – he _felt_ the music and he _led_, Sherlock allowing him to dictate the direction as they moved in tandem. Near the end he gave Sherlock a comical twirl and they laughed, finally slowing as the music came to a close. They let go and Sherlock gave a short bow and John laughed some more and then turned to the invisible audience and bowed himself. He regarded Sherlock speculatively.

"So how did _you_ learn to dance?" he asked.

Sherlock gave him a small smile. "I have attended occasions in which people dance, and I have observed. It was no great mental leap to work out how to dance myself."

John momentarily pursed his lips, sensing there might be more to it, but simply said, "Thank you for teaching me, Holmes."

"No problem my dear fellow." Then Sherlock frowned. "But, Watson –?" He looked down to where the previously spilt acid had now burnt a clean hole through the sleeve of his jacket. "My elbow itches."


End file.
